


Just Dance

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Dancing, Humor, M/M, Reality TV, Sexual Fantasy, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:38:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk is a contestant on Starfleet's version of "Dancing With The Stars".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mackem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/gifts).



Jim doesn’t actually know where Starfleet even thinks they get off.   
  
When important, trusted, venerated intergalactic organizations need publicity and good press and a flood of eager new cadets, they go recruiting the old-fashioned way. They step up their canvassing, they send speakers out to go on tour and hype up the Federation. They talk about the excitement of space exploration, the thrill of adventure, and the pride in peacekeeping and negotiation.   
  
They  _don’t_  put on a reality show.   
  
And they sure as  _balls_  don’t force their youngest ‘Fleet captain into appearing on it.   
  
“I don’t dance,” says Jim.  
  
“Sure you do,” says Pike easily, ignoring Jim and flicking through a pile of PADDs full of mugshots and vital statistics. “I’ve seen you. Remember the peace dinner, on Rigel? You completely tore up the dance floor.” He says this cheerfully, like Jim wasn’t completely wasted on that weird flower-petal wine and thoroughly, horribly convinced he had  _moves_.   
  
“I was drunk!” cries Jim. “This is complete bullshit. I have a ship to run, people to save, planets to discover –”  
  
“The Federation to appease,” interjects Pike. He directs a glare at Jim that’s pretty half-assed, even for him. “For that thing, on Amalthea IV. With the virgins.”  
  
“Oh my God, how many times do I have to tell you that was an accident?” moans Jim. “How was I supposed to know they expected me to –”  
  
“Jim,” interrupts Pike, in the tone of voice that implies this conversation is definitely over now. “Just go. Get your dancing shoes on. Buy some tights. I don’t know. I don’t  _care_. I have  _six thousand_  applications to look through. Some people actually  _want_  to be on this show.”  
  
Jim throws up his hands.  
  
There’s really no point in arguing. The Federation is pretty big and scarily intimidating when they want to be, and they’re the ones that approve all the annual paperwork which says Jim is a captain and that the  _Enterprise_  is his ship, so he resigns himself to his fate. Even his cries of “I don’t dance!” go tragically unheard. They keep assuring him it’s okay that he’s got no fucking clue how to dance. It’s the point of the show, Jim, we’re going to teach you, and you’re going to get partnered up with somebody with skill. Somebody with classical training. Don’t worry.   
  
Jim Kirk isn’t a worrier. He’s just impatient and starting to lose interest and he’d rather be sitting in his chair and looking dramatically out of a viewscreen. All he can do is hope the chick they pair him with is at least hot.   
  
Suffice to say, he isn’t  _at all_  prepared for what he’s faced with.   
  
“That’s it,” he calls, loudly, looking around the room. “Am I being punk’d? Very funny, you guys.”  
  
“Hilarious,” drawls his partner, and Jim has never actually seen Bones in clothes that cling so tightly to him before. It’s kind of making Jim’s mouth go a little dry, his eyes intently tracking over the one-size-too-small t-shirt pulled taut over McCoy’s broad shoulders, sleeves straining around his biceps as he crosses his arms over his chest and levels Jim with an unimpressed glare. Jim wants to push him down and fuck him into the dance floor.   
  
“One ticket to the gun show, please,” says Jim, because he doesn’t know what else to  _do_  when confronted with Bones in sweats that hang about three inches too low on his hips. His arms and shoulders and hips and waist and  _ass_  – God, that  _ass_  – are a little distracting. This has abruptly turned into the best day of his life.  
  
“I will end you,” replies McCoy, eyebrows raised. He cocks one hip, and Jim clears his throat, giving his head a useless little shake.   
  
“Uh, Bones? Seriously? I thought one of us was supposed to have dancing skills,” Jim says around a tongue stuck dry to his teeth, making a little wiggling motion with his fingers that is meant, somehow, to indicate dancing. “I know it’s not me. You can dance?”  
  
“Started when I was a kid. Lessons till I was 18,” says McCoy. There’s a dry note to his voice, something faintly amused hovering under the more palpable annoyance and standard Jim Kirk-induced exasperation. “If you step on my feet, just remember I’m the one in control of your immunization schedule.”  
  
“Bones,” whines Jim, blue eyes wide and pathetically pleading.   
  
McCoy just shakes his head, Jim watching the way his hair falls over his forehead, then steps forward, grasping Jim’s wrists, and then pointedly positioning his hands. Every trace of his usual sullen slouch is gone; his back is ramrod straight.   
  
“I lead,” he snaps with a huff. “Don’t try, or you’ll get a knee right to the junk. Just try to follow along. We’re going to see if we can move around the room without running into anything or dislocating any important limbs.”  
  
“You’re the boss,” says Jim weakly. He can’t take his eyes off McCoy’s hands, long-fingered and deft, one wrapped delicately around his palm, the other settled warm on his back. They start to move, slowly, Jim stubbornly refusing to drop his head and watch their feet, instead treating the whole process like a lesson in hand-to-hand combat except without the body flips. He relies on the graceful feel of McCoy’s body moving, following the sinuous tensing of his muscles and mirroring it as best he can.   
  
McCoy’s scowl gradually eases, and by the end of it, he’s raised his eyebrow at Jim, impressed. “You’re a natural. That shouldn’t surprise me, considering.”  
  
Jim grins, and takes a steadying breath. He feels floaty and lightheaded, like he needs a sit down and maybe a good cigar. “Well, you threatened me. With what is  _total_  medical malpractice, by the way.”  
  
“It’s the only way you’ll learn,” sighs McCoy theatrically, rolling his eyes. He locks his elbow, holding Jim at arm’s length, then does a little shimmy with his hips.   
  
Jim whimpers.  
  


oOo

  
  
The first time they actually have to perform for the cameras, Jim is okay, he’s  _fine_ , honest, he doesn’t get nervous, but McCoy looks like he’s going to throw up, then pass out, then maybe get up and throw up some more for good measure. He looks amazing, though; Jim has never seen him cleaned up so nice before. He’s wearing dress pants and a crisp white button-up, plus a motherfucking  _waistcoat_  that tapers down his slim torso and hugs every lean line of his body. Jim wants to touch him through it and make him squirm, then rip it all off and suck his dick until he sobs.   
  
It’s fine, though, once they’re out there.   
  
McCoy’s nerves seem to settle as soon as Jim’s hand comes to rest on the small of his back and he starts to move. It’s so easy for Jim to shift with him, following again, drifting in his smooth, elegant wake, letting Bones guide him through the dance just like he’s guided him through every other moment in his life when he thought he’d never be able to pick himself up again.   
  
Jim smiles, because they’re supposed to, and McCoy is wearing an expression of studied blank neutrality with just a hint of his usual default bitchface, which is as close as he comes to smiling under duress. Pretty soon, though, Jim is smiling just for Bones, and that little grin of his that Jim tries so hard to regularly dredge up reluctantly appears in return.   
  
McCoy wraps an arm around Jim’s waist and fucking  _twirls_  him with an effortless, casually arrogant,  _ridiculously_  sexy swagger.   
  
Jim doesn’t actually hear the roar of tumultuous applause that greets the end of their dance, but he can hear Bones, chuckling low and soft and dirty in his ear.


End file.
